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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883960">things that go bump in the night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn'>DeHeerKonijn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Voyeurism, Established Relationship, Gimli and Legolas Are Bad Neighbors, Humor, Loud Sex, M/M, POV Original Character, POV Outsider, PWP (Politics What Politics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:29:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883960</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mûth snorted. “Mahal, but he’s really giving it to him.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Kharzul couldn’t decide if he sounded judgemental, amused, disgusted— or maybe even a little impressed.</i>
</p><p>Or, the one where politics are foregone because our resident dingbats are making up for lost time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>307</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>things that go bump in the night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/gifts">Roselightfairy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Roselightfairy - in the name of fandom flow! ★</p><p>Sometimes you gotta take all the nonsense you can and <i>RUN</i> with it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>❖</strong>
</p><p>The Aglarondians arrived in Minas Tirith, very late, in the pouring rain. </p><p>They were so late and so drenched, in fact, that the kitchens were closed, and only the overly-appraising gaze of the Master of Household was awake to meet them. The Gondorian man yawned through giving out keys and room assignments, sparing more concern for the steady drip drip drip onto the flagstones than the comfort of the dwarves themselves. </p><p>Some of them were rather grouchy about this– notably Mûth, who it turned out Kharzul was to share quarters with; but out of the lot, most were just ready to crawl into bed. The end of their journey in sight, they squeaked and squelched the twisting route up into the guest wing of the White City, where two by two they peeled away to their rooms; barely did anyone grumble their goodnights.</p><p>Lord Gimli, in contrast, seemed as pleased as he was soggy, having grown more and more buoyant with every step of his vigorous pace to the end of the wing. He disappeared through the last door without a backwards glance.</p><p>Kharzul found it curious, as he could not remember the lord receiving instruction as the rest of them. After all, Lord Gimli was not a stranger in Minas Tirith, and a good friend of the king’s besides. Certainly he was so charismatic that Kharzul imagined he could pass through almost any room he pleased here without question.</p><p>But Kharzul’s knees ached with the weight of travel, so he put Gimli’s jaunty humming out of his mind. His socks were most definitely sodden, and his toes doubtlessly pruned, and his beard in desperate need of a comb– and so he and Mûth wordlessly huddled for a moment over the slip of paper in his hand, checked the door, and entered the place they would call home for the next two weeks of annual Mannish diplomacy.</p><p>The room was cool with the air of an unused space, though it had been recently tidied with fresh white bed linens and plump sachets of inoffensive herbs placed about. It had a little entryway where luggage might be set, and beyond the sleeping area stood a modest alcove where a woven screen surely hid a washtub. All the detailing from cornices to table legs curled in elegant vines, budding sprigs of flowers, and other such gentle motifs. </p><p>“Very <em> undwarven </em>, but it’ll do,” Mûth assessed, eyeing the height of their new furniture. </p><p>“That’s downright pleasant, coming from you,” Kharzul chuckled, tossing his traveling rucksack at the footboard of one of the beds. He had not known Mûth long, and nor had he known him very well, either, before this journey, but on the road he was able to chip a bit at his craggy exterior. Mûth was stern, grouchy, and all-around had the personality of a bear, but he was a good dwarf to those who might care to see.</p><p>“Speaking of pleasant,” Kharzul commented through the tunic rucked up over his face. “Our Lord Gimli was in the best mood I think I’ve ever seen! I’d wager you couldn’t peel me out of this bed for the next six hours at least, but you would have thought <em> he </em> was off on a ramble on a summer’s day.”</p><p>“Ah,” Mûth grunted, kicking off his shoes. “That’ll be his elf.”</p><p>“Oh,” Kharzul said, “Somehow it slipped my mind that the Ithilien elves would be attending.”</p><p>Mûth shot him a thin-lipped, incredulous squint, and Kharzul laughed. </p><p>“I know, I know! But it’s my first time serving a delegation; I am eager to get into it!”</p><p>They puttered about in companionable silence for a little while longer, then extinguished the lamps and climbed– literally–  into each their own bed. </p><p>“Sleep soundly, Mûth,” Kharzul said, “Hope you don’t snore as much in a bed as you do on the road!”</p><p>Mûth grunted and Kharzul was about to tease further, but the next he opened his mouth there was a soft moan that came from– somewhere.</p><p>“What was that?” Kharzul asked, thinking (hoping) that maybe a bug flew into his ear and he misheard whatever Mûth had last said. </p><p>“Didn’t say nothing,” Mûth replied.</p><p>Another soft, low sound, definitely not his imagination and <em> definitely </em>– </p><p>“Ah. That’ll be his elf.” Mûth said again. This time, though, it was with an entirely different flavor of distaste.</p><p>“Oh,” Kharzul said uncomfortably. Another sound, a high, breathy keen, and in a moment of dawning horror Kharzul knew that he was overhearing his lord and his lord’s husband...at play.</p><p>“Damn mouthy elves. Must share a wall with Lord Gimli’s suite,” Mûth groused. In the dark, Kharzul could hear his companion roll heavily over in bed. A sharp whip of cloth suggested he was punching his pillow into another shape (although considering the circumstances it might not have been for comfort alone).</p><p>A tell-tale thump. A giggle. A deep gasp. Kharzul held his breath.</p><p>A low baritone, speaking words too muffled to understand, and then - a <em> thunk </em> against the wall. Another. Another. Kharzul’s discomfort became excruciating as the sounds built into a steady rhythm. It was that of a drum beat, one Kharzul never asked to be played.</p><p>The higher voice - the elf - cried out again sharply, and the rhythm somehow grew dizzyingly faster.</p><p>Mûth snorted. “Mahal but he’s really giving it to him.” </p><p>Kharzul couldn’t decide if he sounded judgmental, amused, disgusted— or maybe even a little impressed.</p><p>“Watch your tongue, that’s your lord and his husband you’re disrespecting,” Kharzul scolded. Then he cleared his throat, which was dry as a bone.</p><p>“But...It is a bit...Do you suppose they know we can hear them?”</p><p>“Don’t think they care too much, by the sounds of it. Shove your socks in your ears if you must.”</p><p>With all that carrying-on, what Kharzul truly wanted was to leap out the window. It didn’t matter that they were currently on the topmost tier of a city built half a league up into the sky– in fact, all the better. Maybe he could hold his wet boots in each hand and the weight of the water in them would hasten his descent. It wasn’t that he was shy in these matters, but the fact that it was Gimli made him feel as if he were listening in on an older brother— or worse: an older brother’s very attractive best friend. </p><p> </p><p>Lord Gimli growled. The elf moaned. </p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t right,” Kharzul croaked when he finally felt he could stand no more of it, “We shouldn’t be hearing this.” </p><p>“If you don’t like it, say something. Gimli is a fair lord; you must learn to talk to him as an equal if you want his respect.”</p><p>“Oh I couldn’t,” Kharzul said automatically, feeling the heat in his cheeks just as sure as he could feel Mûth rolling his eyes from across the room.</p><p>“I mean...that is to say…” Kharzul continued, unsure. “They don’t see one another very often. Perhaps... bear the discomfort, just for tonight?”</p><p>Mûth sat up at that, and in the dark Kharzul knew he was being leveled with a <em> hard </em> gaze. </p><p>A silence passed between them that was punctuated meaningfully by the very <em> not-silent </em> goings-on next door.</p><p>Finally Mûth shrugged, rolled over, and shoved his pillow over his head.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>❖</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, Kharzul felt a warm, altruistic glow as he saw Lord Gimli and his husband glide serenely into the council chambers, hand in hand. Perhaps it was the elf’s own natural magic, or the three hours of sleep he was finally able to catch, but as the pair separated to take their seats Kharzul wondered how their parting kiss could appear so chaste after all he’d overheard the night before.</p><p>As fate would have it, arrangements were such that Lord Legolas ended up seated opposite to him.</p><p>Kharzul had seen him in the halls of his lord before, but until now had no reason to look upon him for any length of time. He was beautiful– but all elves were, even if a dwarf would rather drop a pair of forging tongs onto his toe than admit it. He had an easy, contented air about him (no mystery there), and his sleek hair woven into the dwarven-style braid was adorned with cuts of amethyst, known widely as pieces hewn from formations in the Constellation Chamber, a cavern with vaulted ceilings deep in the heart of Aglarond. </p><p>The elf made passing eye contact with him, and Kharzul gave him a courteous nod of acknowledgement.  Lord Legolas politely inclined his head in return, smiling that enigmatic smile his kind so often wore. </p><p>Kharzul’s chest swelled with the self-important pigeonry of one who has done another a significant favor (even if the recipient of said favor was unaware). He was the most charitable dwarf alive, had done his good deed, and should–– and would, surely!–– be rewarded handsomely by the Valar.</p><p>But the Valar take as well as they give, and so the second night in Minas Tirith was equally uncomfortable. </p><p>It didn’t start that way, to be fair. A proper reception was held to mark the final group’s arrival–– with plenty of food and refreshment, naturally. High King Elessar was a generous man indeed, one who graciously put a strain on his kitchens for the sake of his guests (and that was what made him a good High King, Faramir of Ithilien joked at the sight of the spread).</p><p>So it was that Kharzul passed the hours laughing and drinking so, so much.</p><p>This made the walk back to the guest wing very pleasant indeed. They were soggy with alcohol instead of rainwater, and that warm, buzzing thrum that settles in the head after a long stretch of unrestrained revelry was decidedly reward enough for a job well done. </p><p>It wasn’t until Mûth unlocked the door to their suite that one of them realized; from the end of the evening-onwards, Legolas and Gimli had vanished. </p><p>Kharzul thought (hoped) the pair had perhaps gone for a late stroll in the crisp air of the gardens, but Kharzul was also an optimistic fool. </p><p>Alas, they discovered the same caterwauling from the long night before had beat them back to their rooms this time– and worse, seemed determined to outlast.</p><p>“Well,” Kharzul said as charitably as he could through gritted teeth. The warm skullbuzzing had betrayed him, transforming into a thumping beast of a headache, “I suppose it would be unfair to ask a pair of spouses to hold back their affections on merely their second night together.” </p><p>A broken wail rang in their rooms and ears as clearly as if their Lord Gimli were bedding his husband on Kharzul and Mûth’s sitting room table. </p><p>Kharzul winced and felt ill. Mûth harrumphed but otherwise didn’t respond. He had already sent down to the Master of the Household for twice the pillows.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>❖</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>On the third night, Kharzul was beginning to feel much less charitable. The day had been long, the negotiations requiring far more of his concentration and attention than he expected. Combined with the splitting wine-headache that stuck to him until well past noon, he wanted nothing more than to sleep the last seventeen hours off and be done with them.</p><p>“Maybe I should say something after all,” Kharzul said groggily to the ceiling, where he assumed not even the spiders would linger at this point.</p><p>He could feel Mûth watching him as he got out of bed, and quietly left the room on wobbly legs. That same feeling of being watched followed him out into the hall, too, though surely not a soul was around to see him swallow thickly through nerves. Nobody was there to see him shuffle quietly up to the door of his lord’s chambers. Nobody was there to see him raise a hand, poised to knock, and then–</p><p>Nobody was in the hallway to see Kharzul lose his nerve and retreat, but Mûth <em> was </em> there to look judgmental when he returned, clearly unsuccessful. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>❖</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Nights four and five were more of the same, and Kharzul was at his wit’s end. He had been in a state of discomfort for so long now that all the self-important benevolence in the world could not stop him from crankily snapping: “I cannot believe the <em> stamina </em>of these people.”</p><p>Mûth honked a rusty laugh from the foot of his bed, where he was blowing smoke rings from a lit pipe.</p><p>“Watch it, that’s your lord,” he mocked.</p><p>Together they observed the offending wall that oddly served as their savior even as it married them unwillingly with Lord Gimli’s private life.</p><p>It was built of smooth gray stone, but Kharzul could swear he saw the hung paintings bumping and trembling in time with the groaning and moaning. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>❖</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The sixth night was the night Kharzul was sure he would shed his courtesy and embarrassment, bolstered by his indignation, his sleep-deprived mania, and the irresponsible amount of <em> kafe </em> he had drunk that day to keep him awake through meetings. </p><p>“This is too much.” he muttered to himself, finally rocketing up in bed. Yes, tonight was the night. His sheets had been tangled and kicked off an hour ago by his tossing and turning, trying hopelessly to find a position in which he could not hear–– everything. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress– and damn these Mannish beds; he had to literally hop down out of it–- and he shoved his crumpled tunic on in a manner most unfitting of a diplomatic representative.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Mûth asked from under his Ereboresque pillow structure. (The Master of the Household had taken to excusing himself hurriedly in the opposite direction whenever Mûth entered the room)</p><p>“We have <em> got </em> to say something,” Kharzul replied, feeling more and more insane with every breathy, needy sound and guttural cry he was forced to hear.</p><p>His ire was enough to propel him assertively into the hall (the effect was lessened a bit by the echoing slap of his bare feet on the marble floor), right up to the door where he had lost his nerve once before. Not this time, though. He squared his shoulders and raised his fist– </p><p>
  <em> “–– want me to fill you up, yeah?”  </em>
</p><p>Kharzul was so stricken by the words that he didn’t register if they were spoken in Common or Khuzdul or Elvish or Treeish or Orcish–– the immense strength of his sheer mortification made him stumble away as if to avoid a blow, and he <em> ran </em> (slap slap slap slap) back to his and Mûth’s suite. </p><p>He slammed the door behind him and leaned his trembling back against it, wheezing, definitely dying probably. </p><p>Mûth cracked open a single eye towards him, and words were not needed to convey the obvious. The younger dwarf urgently shook his head ‘no’ anyway.</p><p>“I can’t,” he croaked, and when a series of loud, staccato whines pierced the air, his whole body flinched.</p><p>“Oh for the love of––” Mûth’s pillow fort crumbled as the older dwarf likewise trundled out of bed; though unlike Kharzul, he did take the time to at least shrug on an overcoat and a pair of thin goatskin house shoes.</p><p>“<em> They </em> are one thing, but your cowardice is another entirely–– come with me, I will end this like a real dwarf,” and Mûth grabbed Kharzul tightly by the wrist, dragging him out the way he came. Kharzul tried desperately to stop him, tried to warn him, clawed at the offending fist holding him, but as Mûth thumped his knuckles confidently on the door to Lord Gimli’s suite, it was too late.</p><p> </p><p>A surprised yelp sounded from within, and then– silence. </p><p>A soft gasp and the creak of a mattress being relieved of a weight. </p><p> </p><p>The ambient sounds of a person passing through a space until–– Mûth raised his eyebrows at Kharzul in a smug “<em> See? Isn’t this simple? </em>” expression–– the door swung open. </p><p>There the Lord of the Glittering Caves himself stood unselfconsciously before them, with what looked like the bed covers pulled up around his waist. His hair was mussed so thoroughly that the curls looked like a fluffy red cloud, along with his beard which was braidless. His mouth was plump and shiny with use, as well as tellingly breathless. There were several angry red marks about the size of an elf’s mouth scattered across his proud shoulders, and even one at the base of a nipple. </p><p>In a poorly-conceived effort to not stare at his lord’s ample, sweat-slick chest, Kharzul instinctively threw his eyes elsewhere– anywhere– but unfortunately in the low lamplight of the room beyond, all he could spot was Lord Gimli’s companion left behind in the bed. A gleam of bare thigh confirmed that the sheets had indeed migrated to the entryway. Naked as he was, Lord Legolas had modestly shifted his hips away from sight of the door, but was twisted around owlishly to peer at them. Both he and Gimli were pink, and not from shame, either. They were both panting.</p><p>All the fight drained out of Kharzul–– for good this time, he was never more sure of anything. All he could do now was pray to be thrown off the peak of the city’s beacon to put him out of his misery.</p><p>“Yes?” Lord Gimli asked gruffly, “Is there something wrong?” His voice was gravelly, cautiously annoyed although ready to address whatever world-ending emergency he was apparently expecting.</p><p>Kharzul winced. There was no emergency, of course. At least, not one besides the crisis that was his future career. </p><p>He found himself spiraling over Gimli’s bruised lip, waiting for Mûth to rescue him, to calmly explain their position and come to a reasonable, if awkward, compromise with their lord. That was what he had promised, after all. </p><p>But Mûth’s throat worked wordlessly, stuttering and grasping for something to say to one of the most intimidating (and, again, crucially: ample-chested) dwarves he’d ever met. But the words never came. Acute panic forced Kharzul to look up at Mûth. For all his blustering moments ago, his eyes were wide, nerve as lost as an oliphaunt in the Shire.</p><p>“Well? What is it?” Lord Gimli prompted. His annoyance was growing at a rate directly proportional to the furrowing of his brow.</p><p>Mûth stammered some more.</p><p>And just like that, all hope was lost.</p><p>“N-nothing, my lord. Have a good night.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>❖</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>At the end of the second week, the council dispersed. </p><p>Lord Gimli’s band of dwarves accompanied the Ithillien elves a short ways east and then north, before parting ways at Osgiliath, where the Aglarondians would begin their bend west and the elves would continue across the river to their woodlands.</p><p>Once there, Lord Gimli called a halt in a very official tone of voice that made it sound like the travelers were permitted a brief rest— but it was plain the real reason was to prolong his farewell to his husband. </p><p>There were soft gazes and sweet smiles, and plenty of lingering kisses. Emotional but still fairly tame, Kharzul thought, bitterly remembering how charitable he felt on that first morning. But he supposed his metric was irreparably skewed at this point, so what did it matter what he thought of this display now?</p><p>Their hands wound tight together and stayed like that until, at last, Lord Legolas pulled away. He playfully grabbed one of Lord Gimli’s mustache braids, and used the tuft at the end to tickle the great war hero’s nose, laughing gaily as Lord Gimli swatted his arse in mock outrage. The elf darted away and swiftly mounted his horse as easily as if carried there by a breeze, and then the elves were off at an energetic gallop.</p><p>Kharzul watched them go sourly.</p><p>Mûth, looking quite the bookend with Kharzul to their shared collection of miseries, pouted beside him.</p><p>“Can’t believe that elf can sit a horse,” Kharzul admitted, “Not after the fortnight <em> we’ve all </em> had.”</p><p>Mûth grunted in agreement. “<em> Nakhagalôn </em> like that, it’s no wonder Gimli Gloinul took an elf for a husband.” </p><p> </p><p>Then, a heavy hand on both of their shoulders made Kharzul certain he would die here and now, at the tender age of 67.</p><p>“In truth, lads,” Lord Gimli rumbled, mischievous twinkle in his eye, “It’s I who might have trouble sitting a horse for a day or two. Ah, but that’s love for you.”</p><p>“Truly. Sacrificing and athletic,” Mûth muttered. He was back to his usual prickly self now that Lord Gimli was wearing pants again. </p><p>“Eh?” Gimli asked, arching a brow. </p><p>Kharzul also felt more confident in the presence of Gimli’s pants. And despite all his anguish over the last nights, he needed to come clean, for the sake of closure of this whole ordeal. </p><p>“What Mûth means to say, sir, is that our chambers were beside yours.” He blushed still, but it was a little easier in the daylight, so he forced himself onward; “We— ah— overheard you and the Lord Ithilien...at night.”</p><p>Gimli squinted his gaze to the left in unembarrassed thought, recalling his many activities of the previous weeks. Ironic that he seemed to need to think on it, as Kharzul would never forget. </p><p>“Oh! My apologies!,” Gimli laughed, not actually sounding very apologetic at all. “Why didn’t you say something?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>❖</strong>
</p>
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